


I Love Him

by SmutWithPlot



Series: Through My Eyes [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, good god can he gush, introverts can talk and talk and talk once you get to know them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-29 02:07:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10844274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SmutWithPlot/pseuds/SmutWithPlot
Summary: Hanzo can gush and gush and gush like a school girl when you get him talking about his favourite person in the world. // #McHanzo fluffiness, but also feels and smuttiness.





	I Love Him

**Author's Note:**

> References to Rising Star. Not necessary to read to enjoy, but has some context.

Jesse McCree is not a quiet man. He isn't exactly honourable, either. By my usual standards, he's a terrible person. He's a cheat and a scoundrel. He's loud and boastful, and rather than being at peace and learning the serenity in stillness and quiet, he finds his salvation at the bottom of a bottle in the loudest saloon he can find.

My first impression of Jesse McCree was, _now there is a real American_. Not real, as in authentic - the average 'Joe' that Americans like to insist most of them are. But the very embodiment of what people think of when they think of America, from his huge, boasting laugh and cowboy hat to the cigar and drawl and quick draw six-shooter and spurs. He is like a bad stereotype, something out of a Clint Eastwood movie, like all those films that took Kurosawa's samurai stories and rewrote them for the cowboys of the Wild West. He drinks Jack Daniels and smokes Cuban cigars and eats tacos with abandon, and everything has 'jalapenos and ranch' on it.

But the first time I came to Overwatch, he was already a legend. A sharp-shooter from his youth, a natural talent unlike so many of us. How he had been part of an outlaw gang (...I thought they were pulling my leg) before Gabriel Reyes had snatched out of there to atone for his sins as part of the original Blackwatch. Even Genji had known in those days, though I found that out only later. I heard how he'd been on the ground in London during the riots, the countless missions he'd been on, and then the tragic story about his mechanical arm...

I could not help but respect him as a warrior. He already had done so much, in the same time as I had been on this earth, and a year less. And then I saw how kind he was to everyone in the camp, how he held doors open and called everyone 'sweetheart' and gave away hugs like they were drops of rain... He did all that with a smile. It was jarring to put the two together, if I did not see him carry the gun and earn his kills.

In combat, he was ruthless. Yes, he was a noisy mess, but he didn't care. He was there for offense, not defense. He wanted them to know he was coming, and he wanted them to fear. He did not screech and kick and wave his arms, he let his gun do the talking, and good god, could he shoot. He moved faster than you could believe was possible, and I was in awe of him. He made me feel primitive and outdated... While he could balance the history of his people and new tech on his armour and arm, and make it work for him, not unlike myself, wearing my robes in the new day. I felt a semblance of similarity between us.

I found myself thinking strange thoughts almost from the beginning. Like... I wanted to steal his hat and wear it about town, and steal his guns and see what they felt like for myself. I wanted to know if that poncho felt as wonderful as it looked all tattered with use and near misses, and yet still warm and comforting, just like him.  
At work gatherings, he was always present. Ha! If there was booze, he was present! He drank like a fish, and if it made him bolder, made him a little louder, and made him laugh a bit more, I did not a the problem. So many men become angry and violent drunks. McCree got happy. He got friendly. He was a big lug, always giving everyone hugs, and giving finger guns and winks to the ladies, and everyone loved him.

I loved him. He was charming and handsome and wonderful. Who wouldn't?

There is an Egyptian woman who is also a marksman. She is with the defensive position like me, but on reading the files, it seemed she, too, was part of the original Overwatch. They call it 'First Watch', the old ones. Even McCree treated her like she was an elder, and I did the same. I tried to schedule my shooting range time to coincide with hers, and learn from her. She was a good teacher, and taught me well.

One day she mentioned McCree in passing. "He is also a very good marksman," I said, trying to stay professional. "I think he is fastest. It is good he has a gun. My bow would slow him down."

She gave me a look that I could not describe. "He is a good man, Jesse McCree. He has had his false starts, but he is always trying to make up for them. But he doesn't let them hold him back. It would do you well to learn how to forgive yourself as well, for your own crimes. Do not let the dead weigh you down, or they will bury you."

The next time I saw him at a party, I tried to watch for the weight of the dead in his eyes. I only saw traces, when he was waiting for another drink. A shadow of pain and agony on his face, when he felt nobody could see him, even for a moment, and then I would watch him pull himself back up by his bootstraps and greet the barman with a smile. He would take the shot, and then the beer, and return to us as if it had not happened.

My heart broke to see the truth behind his mask of joviality. To know he suffered as I did. I wanted to help him.

I was out of town on a mission in Paris with Lucio and Winston. A stake out on a believed headquarters for Sombra, or maybe even Reaper and Widowmaker. We'd been doing 24 hours on, 24 hours off, and it was our off. In Paris, everything is art and theatre, but Lucio wanted to go party. He was treating, so we went. Lucio _liked_ to drink, and when he realised I was keeping up with him, a challenge was issued. Winston did not dare to drink too much (reasonable - I would not want a drunk gorilla in my bar!) and agreed to be our scorekeeper. As we drank, we talked - about travel, about girls, and then... Then we shared stories. I told them about training little Hana, and how we could share our queer Asians ways around the Gaijin. Winston told us about living in space, surrounded by the stars like jewels in the blackness, so infinite and close, like you could reach out and touch them, pluck them like a fruit from a tree, and yet reach out into endless potential... But Lucio wanted to party, so to shake things up, he told a rather funny one about McCree getting caught with a lover while they were on a stake out.

"...So we're all, what's up, McCree? You look... nervous. And he says, 'Who me? Come on, now... Why you say that?' And Angie is right behind him, and she opens the door, and she's MAD, you know? And I watch her, and she goes WHITE. Like a ghost! And McCree looks back, and he goes white, too! And he runs back, and he LOSES the towel, okay?"

Winston is bellowing in laughter, clutching his side. I am not sure what to make of this... After the stars, it seems rather crass.

"And McCree goes, 'I can explain!' And I come forward, and I look in, and Angela starts going OFF in Swiss or German or something, and there's this kid in the bed, wearing nothing but tighty-whities, and trying to put on his pants, CRYING..."

Winston is about falls out of his chair, which makes Lucio laugh even _more_ , and I am... so confused...

"Wait... His?"

"Yeah! He had a GUY! Some sweet little German boy who is crying and trying to get dressed, and McCree's hollering at Angie to just let it go, and then she realises he lost the towel, and screeches at HIM to put some pants on, and the boy runs out with his shirt in his arms, and I'm just DYING in the hallway..."

"Oh! Oh! Did I tell you about the one time we were in Italy and I caught him naked in a gondola with a boy?"

"NO!"

"Yeah! So, this is back in First Watch, and this is right after he'd broken up with Cecilia, nice little blonde girl, loved the chaps, but she couldn't deal with him being away all the time, you know?"

"Yeah! It sucks! Man, I tell ya, I get groupies all over the place, but it's not the same..."

"You're telling me. I'm an ape!"

They did not notice me get quiet. Nor did they notice me drink a bottle of wine on my own. They could not know the many times I had gotten too close to my instructor when I was doing my martial arts training through the years. They could not know how I hid my feelings and my shame. They could not know that as a boy I had read yaoi and felt filthy, and had to throw away my perversions before anyone could see. They could not know about the servant boy I had lusted after in secondary school. They could not know how I had denied myself. Could not know the many, many nights Genji and I had gone to a geisha house, and I had sat in the room with a woman, and not found her touch helpful.

I found one woman who was happy to sit with me for two hours and give me a relaxing massage (an actual massage, not the 'massage' that my uncle had intended for me) and she became my favourite. When my brother teased me that I would not be able to marry her, I was happy to be fooling them. All the years of filth and disgust and longing and empty, hollow lust... It seemed a joke to them. A man in bed with a man. On the one hand, I was surprised they would be so accepting, and more importantly, to let it be known that McCree, macho man and gunslinger cowboy, all charm and smiles for all, would, naturally, be as accepting in his bed and his heart as he was with everything else.

They could not know. They could not know how my image of him changed. Not only did he shoot faster than me, not only was his spirit stronger than mine, he was also afflicted with the curse that I was... and he was strong enough to pursue what he wanted.

I envied him. That night I dreamt of him, dreamt of what he could teach me. What in those manga was real, and what was a myth... Just like he was a real cowboy, just like in the stories.

I started this game. I was not sure I would like it, but I started asking people for McCree's stories. There were a few of them like Lucio's and Winston's - precarious situations where he'd been indulging himself with a pretty thing (male or female) of the local persuasion, getting caught noisily trying to sneak in during the early morning hours, or trying to smuggle his tryst out. Maybe he had disappeared post-job, only for the party to return to the safe house to the sounds of drunken giggling or mad love-making, and he was scolded for his indiscretion. Ana told a story of him saving her life in Cairo, an intel drop gone bad when he had to firefight them out of there, and swept her off her feet like a real movie hero. Angela was not happy about him when the question was first asked. "I'm learning my crew," I said, smiling softly. "He seems to be the most entertaining. Everyone likes McCree. What you tell me of him says as much about you as it does about him." She liked that. She thought I was very clever to do it that way - oh, if she knew my real motivations. She told me about a time on a battlefield in Chechnya where he'd hauled medical supplies 10 miles when they couldn't get proper transport, because his mechanical arm could take it. She finished it with a chide to pass on, that he should really stop smoking, because it was bad for his health.

Jack did not want to answer my question. It felt sore, and personal, so I had Lucio help me look up his file. He was curious enough to himself to not question me, and I learned a lot more about him, and about Gabriel Reyes, and about McCree than I would have learned second hand. Jesse McCree was a valued member of Overwatch, and Blackwatch. He had been picked up at a young age from a gang of bikers in the Southwest. Even that young, they had known him to be a deadly talent with a gun. He was trained, yes. But so much of what he did, and what he was good at, was something he did by sheer speed and intuition, and that could not be taught. Even his supervisor spoke highly of him.

I was honoured to know him. I wondered if someone would be able to ask these questions about me and hear such answers. I realized I respected him greatly. There was a part of me that burned to learn what he could tell me, and I had thought of him in such improper ways before, because why not, but... Now it was different. It wasn't just lust. There was respect.

Now, in my fantasies... I knelt before him, and gave him tea ceremony... or prepared him a drink. Or dinner. I slaved for hours in the kitchen to make him a great feast, and waited on him. I gave him the respect he had earned, and only if I did well enough, would he reward me by satisfying my carnal desires. I hadn't thought I would default to such a submissive posture, but part of me truly relished the thought.

And then one day, he asked me if I was a gambling man.

I knew from the stories that McCree _was_  a bit of a gambling man. More specifically, he was the kind of man who cheated at cards. Intrigued as to what he had up his sleeve, I agreed, as if I didn't know any better. The game was one-on-one training missions, kill for kill. The stakes were pointless. The game was the thing. An excuse to train together, and spend time together. No matter what happened. Even if I lost, I would still win. Time with him was worth any price I had to pay.

In the end, we had dinner, and we had the drinks. We talked for... hours. About anything and everything. I had never had someone who made me laugh so quickly, so readily. He made me feel coy, and mischeivous, and he had little winks and smirks that just felt so... He made you feel like you were the only person in the room. Like you were the only person he saw. He made you feel special. And I liked that. More than I could possibly say.

He broke me. I broke down and let it all out. All of my pain. The killing, my brother, the dishonour I'd given my family, and all of it for nothing, because I was still unhappy... I gave it all to him. And he spoke comfort to me. He beckoned me to know that I was needed, and wanted, and that if I wanted it... He had a place for me, where I could call home.

I kissed him first. It was drunken and sloppy, and I regretted it immensely, at the time, but he was nothing but kind and patient. Cheat, he may be. And wild and unabashed in matters of the heart, but that night I learned he was also a gentleman. He gave me aspirin and bade me drink. He fed me, and brought me comfort and company. He worried for me, even when he wasn't sure that I would give him anything. When he had nothing to gain, he still gave me everything.

For weeks, I made myself sick that I had pushed myself on him, and ruined my chance to have something wonderful. That I had been boorish and selfish. I feared that he would hate me, and fear me, and decide that I was more than was worth his time.

But when we finally sat down to talk... We spoke openly, and he was even more patient, and slow, and generous. He was a gentleman. Our second kiss, we hid behind his hat from the cameras. Part of me thrilled to think someone would see me be kissed by the handsome Mr. McCree, even as part of me was terrified that anyone should know. But I wasn't thinking about the camera anymore, but his lips...

Oh, his lips. He tastes of tobacco and whiskey and... And _him_. He tastes of himself. He smells of sweat and musk and leather and gunpowder and dust. He smells like foreign lands and adventures and daring do. I was hungry for more, wanting to touch him, wanting to learn, to know...

He stopped me, so that we could explore in private. He did not want my first time to be a spectacle. He was considerate, always. He was generous and kind, and gentle.

But when we were in private...

I know what it's like, now. To watch cowboys buck on broncos and bulls, their strong grip on their reins, thighs tight, hips gyrating in rhythm with the beast. I know what it's like to be the beast, to feel his hands on me like that. I've watched him hammer together a trelise for me to build a garden on the back porch. I've watched him haul topsoil for me, when I didn't ask him to. I've listened to him curse as he fixed the kitchen sink. I've heard him curse behind me, too. And beneath me.

He likes to curse. He likes to curse _a lot_. FUCK is probably his favourite. I do not like to say such things, myself. But I love to hear him say it. I do not know why it does what it does to me, but I like it.

I remember the first time we became one. He had waited for a long while, making sure we had built a trust and rapport before we ventured further. He taught me pain, and he taught me pleasure, and he taught me how they mingle well, and we found how they did not.

I did not know I would squeal like a pig. I did not know he'd shout, "Sooo-ey!" in reply, and laugh before slapping a hand on my quivering flesh. He is so gracious and kind to me, giving me a kiss and a joke to ease my discomfort. He even put on music so I would not feel so foolish making such noises, so that only he would be privy to hearing them.

To this day, the opening theme to "The Good, The Bad & The Ugly" will forever make me blush.

I would ask him what his plans were for an evening. "Nothin' much. Go home, watch _Tombstone_  for the umpteenth time and drink beer. You wanna come?" And he would grin, a devilish grin full of ulterior motives and wicked perversions, and I would immediately agree. It took me three or four months before I did actually watch _Tombstone_ , but I learned a lot of the jokes by ear pretty quickly as he murmured them in my ear as he touched me. I like when he murmurs in my ear. His voice is like whiskey and coke, rich and scratchy and mellow and it makes me drunk. I told him about Kurosawa when he had me watch _Fistful of Dollars_ , and I explained to him that several westerns were based on Kurosawa-san's samurai films. We would watch them back to back with the intent to compare them, but it did not always work out so well. Not right away, that is. Eventually we did.

I remember the first time he took me to a cigar shop. He just wanted to stop in, but I was curious, and I joined him. Quiet as a shadow, I followed a step behind his jangling, dancing spurrs. The man behind the counter knew him on sight, and greeted him by name, his head bald and shiny, and a curly moustache like the guys in _Tombstone_. The place smelled of... caramel, and honey, and yes, tobacco, but also something like leather and oil. Everything was in pretty boxes and wrappers, and I felt like a foreignor in a candy shop, where I knew there were good things all around me, but I had no idea what they might be. The man behind the counter offered new pieces to Jesse, and he smelled them, like I might tea leaves, and hummed. He offered it to me, and I obediently sniffed, though I did not understand. The man 'cut' a cigar for Jesse, and he puffed on it. It smelled wonderful, all spicy and the sweet and I smiled, because it was why he smelled like he did. Then he offered it to me to try. The man coached me as well, and I gave it a try. I coughed, and they told me 'don't inhale', which I do not understand, but it was fun.

Jesse still brings me home a cigar now and again, a thin and easy one, and sometimes we sit out on the back porch and smoke and admire the garden. I am happy with the garden, and I am happy to be there with him. I think he is happy I do not mind the cigars. It would be a shame if someone did not, for he truly loves them.

I love how he loves his boots. I love how he loves his hat - and I love his hat, too. I like to steal it from him when we are out and about, and he has tried several times to buy me my own, but I insist it is not the same.

It is not because I want  _a_  cowboy hat. I want _my_  cowboy's hat.

He loves his guns. He told me they were custom made, with a feathered trigger that would let it shoot faster. He even let me shoot them once, and once I felt the _power_  of one, I stared at him in awe. He looked confused, and I insisted on spoiling him like the god he was when we got home.

I love the way he loves to hold me. He keeps his metal arm to himself half the time - I am sure it feels strange to him to have a piece of him that is not him anymore. But the other... It wraps around my shoulders to hug me close. It wanders into my shirt to mingle with my chest hair and maybe tease at a nipple or pinch a rib, just to make me squirm and complain. And he will pretend he is innocent and did nothing. He will reach out to me when he walks by. Sometimes it is a hand squeezing my shoulder. Sometimes it is fingers in my hair, gently massaging as we speak, or if I am worried about something. Sometimes he will grab my butt, and it is especially exciting when he does it in passing in public. Like... I know he did it. And he knows he did it. But no one else saw it.

I like that he goes out of his way to spoil me, no matter where we are. He makes fun of me for my sake, but he keeps it in stock. If I am low on plant soil, he buys more. If I am running low one tea, he takes note and the next day he comes home with a tin the next day. He even knew when my brother's birthday was, and we went shopping together to find him something. If I say my glove is ripped, he will buy me new ones before I can fix the old ones.

I have five pairs of gloves now. He is a silly man.

We go on lots of 'dates', even though we have been 'dating' for some time. We go to the theatre and see old movies. We go out to dinner just because. I was feeling homesick, and he found a local Japanese zen garden I did not know was in town! They even had tea ceremony, and we went together, me in my traditional robes, and he in a nice black suit. I have so many pictures of that day! I had one framed and put in our bedroom, on my side of the table. It is often the last thing I look at in the night, before his big strong arms wrap around me, and I sigh, feeling his warmth behind me. He speaks gently in my ear and gives me kisses, and I have become so addicted to his hands and his touch and his kisses and his love, that any time he is gone on a mission, even for a day or two, my entire soul and being aches.

I am addicted to him. I light cigars to make the house smell like him, and I put on his movies and try to go out and have lunch with Hana or Angela or anyone, or have dinner with my brother. I do not like to be home alone when he is not there. I cry like the rain, but I will tell no one. When he is due home, I spend all day cooking, a feast for him to come home to. I bake brownies, and buy his favourite ice cream. I make sure we have a full bottle of whiskey. I go to the cigar man, and he gives me three, so that he does not have to leave the house and stay home with me, ha!

I love how he loves spice. I make spicy stir fry and sushi and teriyaki and dumplings and soups and roasts, and he eats all of it. He gobbles it up and asks me for more. I add more and more peppers to see if he will eat it, and he does! Even when we go out for tacos, everything has jalapenos and ranch on the side. He has an iron stomach! The only thing he does not like is the fruit sodas and strange drinks that are common in Japan, but he loves jelly beans, and I like to hide a bag in his jacket for later. I buy him manga and anime as well, but the only ones he liked so far are _Trigun_  and _Cowboy Bebop_. I am not surprised.

He loves his El Rey Network. I had not heard of the thing, but it is all old action movies and Steven Stegall and Kurt Russel, and more. There is even kung fu movies one night of the week, and Mondo Mondays with big monsters and kaiju. He made sure I watched _Escape from New York_ , and I traded him for a Godzilla marathon. He joked with me that he thought Godzilla was a bad thing, and he winked, but I just gave him a kiss. For Christmas that year, he bought me my own 'Mexican blanket' from across the border, and we curled up on the couch to sip cocoa and watch Kaiju. It will forever be one of my happiest memories.

...But of all things, I love his soul. He spends so much time being my rock, and my protector. He reminds me he is there with passing love when he is moving through the house, but he does not intrude on me. Although we share a bedroom, the other is his armory, and there is also an office. He gave that office to me. I treat it as my safe place, and I do my work there. I keep our books. I keep our schedule. I fuss at him for putting his boots on everything (and he laughs at me) and then he turns around and teases me right back for my collection of tea cups everywhere. He says he was a barman, once. I believe him. He has the charm for it. But for all the smiles he gives everyone else, in our home - _our_  home - he is quiet. He laughs, yes. But this is his place of rest. I believe I have made it better for him. I use feng shui to clean up the clutter. He still throws his clothes around, but you can not win all things. I keep the house well. He brings in whatever I need, often without me knowing I asked. He takes care of me. He makes sure I do not brood over my cold tea. He invites me to the couch for movies so I am not alone. But if I say no, he does not pester me. He gives me space. He does not invite people to our home without permission, because he knows I am not the gregarious man he is. We go to parties and things, and he is the center of attention. I am not that way. I find a corner and watch him. I love to watch him, laughing and smiling and hugging and kissing people on the cheeks in his friendly way. And I remind myself it is just friendly. I was jealous a long time, and sometimes I still am. But it helps that in the middle of it all, he will turn to see me. To make sure I am still there. And I smile at him, and he blows me a kiss, and I am reminded that I am still loved. And he goes back to his party, and even if I am not in the middle as he is, I know I am not forgotten.

And... He trusts me. I do not know how I earned that trust, but I have it. It was much harder for me to trust him, but I do.

When he comes home from a mission that I am sure is wetwork, he tries to be quiet. He takes off his boots in the hall outside his apartment, but I am always waiting for him to come home, food cooked and in the kitchen or oven, waiting for him. He tells me he will be home late, and not to stay up, but I do so anyway. I listen to him unlock the door and quietly close it. He drops his boots, and rifles in the kitchen, the quiet whine of the cupboards and rattling of glass not enough to wake, but I am already sitting up in bed in the dark, listening. If it is a movie or tv, he is wired and can't sleep yet. So he watches something to relax. Maybe a beer. But if I hear a shot glass, and a bottle, and the spark of the match without the movie, I know it is bad.

The first time I just listened. It was only a month in, so I did not know what to do. He drinks, the groaning and grunts of hard liquor. It is not like when he goes out for drinks with someone and comes home, tired and drunk, and he sloppily comes to bed to wake me, inadvertently or otherwise. This is a different kind of drinking. The kind he does in private. At home, or in a bar in Mexico, where no one can find him. I listened for over half an hour, frozen and terrified, until I heard him begin weeping. The second time, I had lied in bed worried it would happen again, and bolted up. He tried to play it off, finished his drink and came to bed with me, but he did not sleep well that night. Nor did I. And he stayed out late again the next night, that time coming home very drunk and tired, but not wanting to play. The best thing, I learned, was to be quiet as a mouse - quieter. I snuck up on him, and merely gave him a hug. It surprised him, but he just held me.

I admire his strength, but even Jesse McCree has his bad days. But I am here now for him. I can do that. I can hold him and love him and forgive him for whatever wrong he has done, and let him live with himself. And he'll kiss me and thank me, and send me back to bed. When I do that... he doesn't drink as long, and he comes back to bed like he should, and wraps his arms around me.

I love him. With everything in me. I hate to see him in pain. I want to do everything I can to give back to him as much as I can. Maybe he is not quiet, or honorable, and maybe he isn't still and maybe he cheats at cards... But that's why I am there. I can hold him accountable, and give him serenity and a sense of honour when his own fails him. We are better for having each other.

**Author's Note:**

> Jesse: Ah, I fuck lots of people. It's the cutesy domestic shit that makes my heart soar. I love being in love.  
> Hanzo: I'VE BEEN IN THE CLOSET FOR SO LONG! Everything is awesome! He is sexy and wonderful, and I am so HAPPY about all the things! Let me tell them to you!
> 
> Edit: I am touched by how many of you are crying over this one. Not just because I appreciate you loving my writing (I always appreciate that, rest assured) but because all of my work is, inevitably, a self portrait of a kind. In #McHanzo, I am very much like McCree, and Hanzo reminds me very much of my... well, now ex-wife. This is as much a memorial to the better parts of our marriage as it is me trying to remind myself I am worth loving.
> 
> That's the thing about being gregarious and outgoing: it's hard finding someone who is attracted to your obnoxiousness, but not so addicted to it you can't be quiet. Someone who can share you when you need to go out, but not be jealous when you're the center of attention, but they aren't. Hanzo does things mine didn't do, so it's not surprising it didn't work out, in hindsight. This piece means a lot to me. I'm glad that translates, and that you folks feel it, too.


End file.
